An interview with Janett Plummer

The Milestone: Why have you chosen poetry as medium of expression? How did you first step into the realm of poetry? What is the name of your first poem? Where was it published?

Poet: Poetry comes naturally to me. As a child I was a lover of words, and writing poetry happened naturally.

One of my first poems was about South Africacalled we are from Apartheid I wrote it when I was 12 or 13 years old. I used to act but found it very time consuming attending rehearsals and in 1997 I started writing a lot more poetry and had a launch event in Mayfair London.

My first published poems were in a collection called Flowers on a Shoestring I cant remember which two poems were published.

The Milestone: Did you inherit the spirit of poetry from your parents? If so, how?

Poet: None of my family are interested in poetry. We are into reading though.

The Milestone:  Do you use myths in your poems? If yes, do you love any special myths that recur in your poems? What’s your view point about myths?

Poet: Niall O Sullivan, The editor of my Lifemarks poetry book said that a common theme in my poems is imagery of the body; it featured heavily in the 35 poems I submitted to him.

Myths do pop up or ideas connected to historic female figures such as Lileth or Delilah.

The Milestone:  What is your philosophy of life and how does it get reflected in your poems?

Poet: My philosophy is influenced by feminism and that is reflected in many of the poems I write. I tend to write about strong and decisive women but who also have a gentle emotional side too.

The Milestone:  Do you believe in ‘arts for arts’ sake’, or do you believe that poets have also social responsibilities? If yes, how do you fulfill it?

I believe that Poets do have a social responsibility. It can convey messages and reflect support or express opinions about things that matter. Lots of poetry is being written about Haiti since the earthquake.France and it’s terrible shameful relationship to  will be uncovered partly because of people being curious about Haiti . The news reels will long be over – but famous poets and writers may write an iconic poem that is in circulation in decades to come. Lots of writers write about their personal politics – left wing poets wrote about Margaret Thatcher and President Ronald Reagon in the 1980’s. In Rusia and China in the past they have viewed writers as dissidents and banned or imprisoned them. Of course they have a responsibility to report and reflect issues that matter to them and their communities.

The Milestone:  In your view point what’s the difference between the poetry of tradition and the postmodern poetry? How will you describe yourself? A traditional poet or a postmodern?

I would describe myself as a post modern poet. Very contemporary but at the same time I will use and play with form. One of my favourite forms is the traditional Japanese Tanka short poetry form. I love Villanelles and their rhythm but it doesn’t come naturally to me. I am more comfortable with sonnets etc. I have experimented with Triolets and less well known poetic forms.

The Milestone:  What’s the present trend of poetry in England as well as in Europe ?

The present trend in British poetry is for free verse and narrative poetry that doesn’t necessarily follow set structure, form or rules. It allows the poet more freedom.

The Milestone: Do you believe that poetry can’t be confined within the narrow walls of time and space and it has universal appeal? What are the qualities that touch a reader’s heart when he/she reads a poem that is written in a language that is not his/her own language?

Poet: I believe that good poetry is timeless.  A sign of a good poem, is that when it is written in another language and then translated it should still be beautiful, relevant and convey the authors point of view. Pablo Nerudo does this effortlessly. He is well loved the world over.

The Milestone:  Do you believe that poetry is the 'spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings' or like some other poets you also believe that poetry must have a separate diction that the common humans can’t understand?

Poet: I think in the past a view that good poetry contained lots of hidden messages that ordinary people weren’t meant to understand – but I feel that is nonsense. That’s a bit like a musician playing mysterious music with strange beats that no one understands.  You are supposed to understand what the writer intended to convey.

The Milestone:  Who is your favourite poet? Why?

Poet: I really admire Sharon Olds; I like the realness and honesty of her work. She focuses on issues relevant to women. Her work touches me and inspires me.

I also admire Carol Ann Duffy who has been made the new Poet Laureate for the UK.

The Milestone:  What’s the future of poetry when more and more people are drawn to soap operas and pulp fictions?

Poet: I think the future of poetry lies in spoken word- appealing to younger people – clever word play and a more lyrical, rhythmic feel to poetry.

Also the use of music to complement poetry is a trend to watch.

(Janett Plummer is a writer who focuses on the intricate detail of the dust between the cracks in the floorboards of life. She speaks of missed words and the physicality of pain.

Her poems crackle with the sincerity of a survivor tempered by humour and vivid pictures. Her influences include Sharon Olds, Haruki Murakami, Kwame Dawes and Carol Ann Duffy.

After leaving Theatre in 2000 she set out to write poems that document women’s lives. Her work has been anthologised and published in newspapers and magazines including Red anthology (Peepal tree press), Flowers on a shoestring, A Storm Between fingers and Handmade Fire Flipped Eye. Her first book Lifemarks was published by Flipped eye publishing in 2009.

To date she has performed at a long list of venues including, The Tate Gallery, The British Museum, Poetry Cafe, The Barbican, Paradiso (Amsterdam), Recreation Rooms (Chicago), The Drum (Birmingham), The Green Rooms (Manchester), Stratford Theatre, The Hat Factory, and Ledbury music festival.

As a live literature performer she has been likened to “hot rain falling”. Powerful, sensual and evocative, Janett is in demand as both a performer and a writing tutor.

She has continued to work with women and in 1994 she formed Inspired Word charitable organisation for women focused on therapeutic writing and positive mental health. She is also a member of Malika’s Kitchen writers.

She is most proud of producing a daughter who sees zero on dice, and bends rainbows into zigzags. Oh that and surviving a few storms to still be here today.)

Poems 

Janett Plummer

Free now

• for Sylvia Plath

I loved her I did,

with her dark words and stinking sounds

flopping in the belly of Jonas’s whale

a stinking carcass washed up on a beach

like ambergris, out she popped,

 complete with book writing her sadness onto pages

letting her bile fill the ocean

depressing the waves and floating the sea

so if you ever hear a moan or hear a crash or see a crack

of waves lashing high against the breakers,

you’ll know it was she, who polluted the sea

with her words of darkness, deepness and sorrow

while smiles a callow smile and all the time she’ll say it was me,

who captured the sea and failed to set it free

who went and spilled out all her bile and let it loose 

against the sea like fetid guts and broken shrimp and cockle lashing down unbearable

gushing out into the sea – with only a notepad, pencil whittled down

springing out her whole despair and depth, splashing back

from the wash of the sea evoking it’s fury.

 Ashish Sanyal

A Pre-winterNight

A pre-winter night

We two had spent much of it together.

Then

The moment we saw sunrise on the shore

We forgot the night all.

We forget our closeness

Our affectionate togetherness

Now Bidisha,

You in my life is but

A tearful memory.

Memory is painful

Memory is gloomy

In the flow of life ahead

When night dawns

To the tide of the day

Who wants to lick memory?

Yet I look for the unearthly water

Which cools life buried

In the ashes of

The flickering reminiscence.

Only one night you were

Yet you have engulfed me.

The aroma of your bosom

Titillates the apple orchard.

Within the melancholy

Rises the passionate heart of

A renouncing pauper-

Unmarked, I watch

Horror shrouding the future ahead.

( Ashish Sanyal is retired professor, a poet and critic. He is also the president of International Bengali Poetry Festival.)

Ajit Kr. Trivedi

Riddle of Life

What’s life, I don’t know!

Is it an unending flow?

That comes from the empty space;

O, no! We can’t unfold truth by guess.

Human like thirsty clouds on the sky

Craves to fall like rain on earth.

Dreams of men may subside

But wounded hopes roam on white path

On autumn afternoon suddenly he

Discovers brown leaves on his

courtyard; still

He weaves dreams like the Seagull that

Dares to fly the perilous sea.

Ajit Kr. Trivedi is a veteran poet of 80’s, and editor of Chandravas, a literary magazine

Short Story

Tulika Das

Coward 

An esteemed magazine of Kolkata sponsored Sayan’s tour to Thimpu. When the plane touched the Paro airport, he could utter only a single word ‘wonderful’ because he was surrounded by a chain of mountains.As the car was heading towards Thimpu he noticed that down the valley river Thimpu was rippling gaily. The car was running over a fly over. After some time it took a left turn and began to go down, in a few seconds it again climbed up and sped towards the heart of the city. The car stopped in front of a large building. Stepping out of the car he noticed the signboard. It read ‘Rambsell Hotel’. The ground floor of the building was below the level of the flyover. Walking across a concrete slab that connected the first floor of the hotel to the road he entered the building. Pushing a glass door he entered into a large room.  He glanced at the large wooden semicircular counter. On the wall against the counter wine bottles were stacked inside a huge showcase. Very slowly he looked around the room. Bright coloured heavy curtains were hanging from the windows. At the farthest corner of the room a television was showing some movie. Two young women were watching it sitting on a settee. They waddled to the counter and asked him in Bhutanese, “What can we do for you?” He answered in Hindi, “Can I get a room?”  But they would not know Hindi. He tried to make them understand by acting, but they began to giggle seeing his acting. He noticed that the younger one was looking at him curiously. However he became able to make them understand his need.The younger girl walked him to a room. The interior of the room pleased him. The floor was carpeted. Though the room had only one window but it was open to the south. When he removed the curtain aside the snow white mountain appeared before him.

 “Please, send a beer bottle and some salted cashews," he told the girl, but like again she burst into giggles  and began to say, “Hoi, hoi.” He beckoned her to follow him and arrived at the counter. There pointing at the beer bottles he said, “Beer.” He noticed that she was enjoying his acting. But he could not get annoyed. She was so innocently charming and her soft, redish cheeks were glowing like ripe apples, and two bright black eyes were always playing. When she was swaying her head her dark locks were dancing in glee.

 After drinking he entered toilet for bathing. The tepid water made him feel fresh. Wrapping the towel around the waist he came out from the toilet, but felt embarrassed when he saw that she was standing there with a plate of salted cashew.

 Seeing him in half naked condition she ran away. He heard her giggles going down the staircase.After lunch he took a taxi to travel the city. The driver was a young chap. He asked curiously, “How are the girls?”

“How are they? You ask how they are! They don’t hesitate to give you everything if you love them,” boasted the driver.

He visited many places. In the evening the driver dropped him in front of the hotel. He saw that the younger girl was standing at the reception desk. He told her to send a bottle of wine, pointing his finger towards the wine bottles. This time she nodded her head. When she appeared in the room he beckoned her to sit on bed. He asked her, “What’s your name?”

“Sangya.”

“You know Hindi!” he yelped in wonder.

A naughty smile played on her face. He thought “May be she is interested in me.”At night  when he went to toilet he noticed the water heater  was out of order. He went to the reception desk to report .This time Sangya was not there. An elderly lady was present there who assured that she would replace it very quickly. Half an hour later Sangya came with a new water heater. She was showing him how to operate it. They stood close. Her hands were on the switch board. He drew closer, closer, finally there was no space between them. Only hot breath was falling. He embraced her. Suddenly she grew restless. “I’ve to go,” she whispered.

“Please,” he begged. “Keep the door open. I’ll come at midnight ,” she flung the words while running down the staircase.

The clock was talking tick tock, tick tock. Beneath the flyover a drunkard was rambling something in some local diction. Far away a street dog was barking in cold. He head a soft smote on the door. The coridor was dark and she was standing there.

She sat on bed, drawing the quilt on her legs. He lay on his back placing both hands under the head. She was telling her life story- “On the southern border of the country there is a village. The people of that village would climb down the hill to work on the tea estates in Indian territory . There a poor man would live with his seven children. One of his children’s name was Sangya. When the man grew old his children told their father to take rest at home. They went out in search of work. Some went to tea estates. Sangya came to this hotel.” Then she asked him “Where do you live?”

“Kolkata,” answered he. Her face was brightened. “My father once went to Kolkata. He told me that it’s a very big city." Then she asked him, “Will you take me there?”

The night was growing old. He could not wait. He drew her inside his quilt. The question remained unanswered.He stayed there for a week. Every night she would come. “I love you, babu,” often she would say. On eighth day he decided to leave. When he was checking out his look fell on the window. A pair of dolorous eyes was watching him. But he dared not meet them because he could not keep his promise. She asked him, “Are you scared to take me home?” He could not dare to tell her that she was his part time lover.  He told  her the age old lie, “Soon I’ll come back. Then I’ll take you at my home.”

The innocent girl could not see through his lie.

( Tulika Das is M.A in English and a teacher in government school.)